These past two months was a hectic time for me. Work was uncommonly stressful, I got sick, the kids took turns getting sick, our little household had a yaya turnover, my finances took a nose dive—all upheavals and high drama. For some days there, I felt like I was hanging on by a thread, all the while watching the strands slowly unravel.
I scrambled to resolve all those things, and while some of these predicaments miraculously resolved themselves (optimists can will things into becoming), it was the yaya situation that really did me in. Backgrounder: I have two rambunctious boys, aged 3 and 1. Each of them has a yaya, since I am a working mom and I know toddlers are not to be trifled with.
Yaya Ying is Jethro’s yaya; she has a tiny frame, arched brows, and is a haughty mestiza. Jeremy’s Yaya Viv is 38 years old, big boned with wavy hair and a strong grip. In her wake faucets break off, kitchen knives chip, hinges hang loose. Despite this shortcoming though, she is reasonably efficient, she does not shy away from the multitude of house chores and is patient with Jeremy most of the time.
But one night, Yaya Viv woke me up with frantic knocks on my bedroom door. I rushed to open it, and there she stood, her eyes wild, clutching her blanket. She said she thinks she’s being possessed. Not dreaming, not having a nightmare, but possessed. Okaaay. A thousand alarm bells went off in my head, all chiming, ‘psy-cho, psy-cho, psy-cho, psy-cho.’ Yaya Viv said she heard strange voices coming out of her mouth—first the voice of a man, then a little girl's, then an old woman's. She mumbled something about a black spirit hovering in the ceiling of her room, which is down the short hall, from the bedroom where the kids, Yaya Ying, and I slept.